


the first advent

by allsovacant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 'Tis The Season, A bit Au?, Advent Challenge - 2018, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, And Then Kissing, CH10-part3, CH11-Finale, CH12— A bit of Rosie in here, CH9-part2 of the prompt, Chapter 2 — John PoV-ish, Chapter 3 is a first part, Chapter 3 — definitely AU, Chapter 4 is part 2 of You—better watch out, Chapter 5 - we're going EXPLICIT, Chapter 6 — a bit unusual hahahaha, Chapter 8 — another continuous work, Completed, Drunk!Sober!John (who wouldn't be?), Established Boyfriends Relationship, Falling In Love, Fictional Locations, Flashback, Flirting, Going almost naked, I decided for it to end with a Rosie chapter, Idiots in Love definitely, John Loves Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mentions of Foreplay, Mild Angst, Nightmares, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Season/Series 04, Sherlock Worries, Sherlock is soft, Sherlock loves? John (we'll see), Soft!Sherlock and Soft!Jawn, Stargazing, Tags to be added, Teen!John and Teen!lock, Use your imagination, chapter 7, different POVs, just an excuse for John and Sherlock kissing, light fluff, silent sex, teen!lock, thank you for reading!, the mildest of angst, this challenge is making me mad, traumas, violinist and pianist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-01 09:04:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16762123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant
Summary: This work will be a collection of ficlets/full fics based on the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge Collection by MissDavis.Chapters are stand-alone (unless mentioned otherwise).Written in order1. Holiday decor (indie)2. Star (indie)3-6. You better watch out/Snowman/Believe/Fireplace (continuous work)7. Memories (indie)8-11. Music/Gift/Do you see what I see/Comfort and joy (continuous work)12. Gingerbread (indie)Check out the works of other authors in the collection. Thank you so much!—unbeta'ed for the love of mistakes—Work has been marked Completed. Thank you for reading!





	1. Holiday Decor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissDavis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/gifts).



> Hello! Leev here!
> 
> This is my first attempt to write for an Advent Challenge. Not gonna promise to post at the right time though because life and shit happen but I'll do try to post until the due date.
> 
> Hopefully, you'll journey with a newbie. Good luck to me. xD  
> Thank you very much. :)

The men of New Scotland Yard stood silent as they watched and listened to the tall, lithe figure of the consulting detective who strolled through the crime scene, long coat making a swishing sound as he spun followed by his deductions of the murder case that has taken them two weeks to gather informations.

Arms flailing in front of them, fingers pointing on marks on the floor, on the walls that are either invisible or was never there, only the man knows. Tousled curls bouncing as he spun around and direct orders to them in the camo of insults. But they never had time to pay attention to his those degrading words, for they are—like the man—was in between the rush of adrenaline and anticipation as to how the case ends. Then pale grey eyes darkens and sharpens and the police held their breaths as finally, finally—he points to the murderer who was just sitting behind them eating his missed lunch meal.  
Arrest was made and the consulting detective left the crowd open mouthed and with a frantic detective inspector behind him.

###

He finished the case early. John would be proud. Sherlock thought.

"Sherlock! Hold on a second!"

He stopped at the breathless sound of his name being called. And as he turned, DI Lestrade was already behind him, breathless indeed.

He put a scowl on his face.

"What now?! I just solved a case that an observant twelve-year old could solve—" He started but the DI cut him off.

  
"Oh please—not all of us are like you Sherlock."

Sherlock pouted and gave the DI a smug look.

  
"Yes. Obviously. Now what? What else do you need?!" He whinged impatiently.

He needs to be home. Today is a special day. The DI gave him a curious look.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade—" He started.

The DI glared at him while waving folders in front of them.

"Your statement, Sherlock. And just—wait a second. Why are you in such a hurry?"

He was about to reply but the DI cut him off again, grinning. "The papers can wait once again huh? Are you going to be late for your _date_?"

And suddenly, time stopped around him.

A _date_? No.

  
He and John was just going to decorate their flat and he promised John that he would be home soon earlier. Not that he asked for it...

Sherlock replayed on his mind palace the conversation he and John had before. John said he used to do the holidays decorating in his old home when he was young. Harry would do the Christmas tree and his parents would hang the fairy lights. John on the other hand would arrange the gifts they had bought.  
And Sherlock marveled at the thought of how young John Watson, eyes filled with wonder, face lit up with the brightest smile as the siblings would be carried by their father over broad shoulders and arms as their mother would put the Angel decor on top of the Christmas tree.

It was a memory John only shared the last Christmas they had—before his _fake suicide_. Before he crushed John's world beneath his feet. Before it felt like he stabbed the man on the heart. The man he fell in love with ever since the latter saved his life from an awful serial killer cabbie.

Being away for two years made him realise a lot of things. He came back to a John Watson with sadness carved on stone-cold face. It was already a Christmas miracle (although he never believed in it) that John came back on the flat one rainy midnight. It was a week after he came back from the 'dead' and confessed why he had to do it. He told John everything and he didn't care even if John's almost wife was there. When John's familiar footsteps sounded on the steps of the stairs, he was immediately on his feet. And when the door revealed a soaked and cold John Watson, he couldn't help but grab the man in a friendly embrace. He let John in and after John had changed into new clothes, John opened up to him. He learned that the woman John was supposed to marry was already cheating on him and was already pregnant with another man. Sherlock listened as John talked and talked and talked. As John released all of the pent-up frustrations against his almost wife and Sherlock that he had kept to himself for two years.

But even after that, acceptance was never achieved easily. However, John was warming up on him again and he will never do anything to ruin John's world again.

So earlier that morning over breakfast, when John asked him to take only few cases and go home early, he was utterly surprised. Because that meant John wanted to be with him in the same place, at the same time, unlike the first week when he came back. John then continued to talk and all Sherlock could understand was that one sentence that made John's face beet red, lower lip licked, and his voice as soft as a whisper.  
"Sherlock, I... I bought some new holiday decors. Will you... take a few cases today and come home... to me—I mean Early?"And then John smiled shyly, how could Sherlock Holmes say no to that?  
Which brings his irritation to the DI on the topmost level in a flick of a finger right now.

"Sherlock—"  
The DI flicked two fingers once again.

"Tomorrow. Greg." He said, finding his voice finally. "You'll have them. Now if you'll excuse me, Detective Inspector."

He didn't wait for the DI's reply, but he did heard a heavy sigh. He then walked to the waiting area to hail a cab. One passed while the other one he hailed was asked from him by a young student with an elderly grandmother that was suffering from dizziness.

He checked for the time, one and a half hour before John's duty on the clinic ends. Impatiently, he walked a few more streets downtown to kill some minutes off. He tried a night market that was just about to open. Surveyed the place, the stalls looking for something among the dull types of decors that was usually used on decorating. He couldn't find anything of his interest. Actually, he thought of a holiday skull to partner his very own—just like him and John. He frowned to himself. He wondered if John would like it. Or would he really be thrown away from the flat this time? He then decided against it.  
When he was about to leave, a stall catches his attention. It was still a stall for holiday decors for sale but this one was different. He walked towards it and examined the little wooden houses with a little plush Santa Claus hanging by the chimney. The stall owner is an old lady with a deaf boy about ten years old sitting beside the woman. Sherlock recognized him as one of his homeless network. The boy saluted to him and signed to the old lady as his grand mother. And because he couldn't help it, his mind went into deductions. The old lady was about eighty-eighty-five years old, widowed, husband died at war and with an only child who also died at service. His eyes then went back to the various decorations being sold. The stall was with a sign of 'Little Houses Made by Veteran Soldiers'—and he thought of John if the man would like it. Before, John had a penchant of talking about the war heroes that he looked up to. As if the man wasn't his very own war hero. If there's truly a hero between the two of them, it would always be John. The thought made him smile again.

When he had finally decided what to buy, he bought four. It would be perfect for the coffee table. He paid and purposedly given greater amount than the price needed. The deaf boy signed _'Thank you'_ at him and he signed, _'You're welcome, take care of your grandmother.'_

  
He was about to leave once again when he felt someone grabbed on his coat sleeve. He turned and to his surprise, it was the old lady. She was holding something in her frail hands that she clearly wanted for him to have. Sherlock took it and laid it in front of the empty table beside the stall.

It was a Christmas wool jumper with a _tedious_ design. Woven red and green colours with zigzags and snowflakes.

Sherlock looked at the old lady and shook his head while giving the wool jumper back.

  
"I... I can't take this."

The old lady smiled and gazed up at him with watery eyes and a look of longing.

With her ragged low voice she said, "Give it to him before it's too late."  
Taken a back by the old lady's words he turned to the boy but he was waved off too. He looked at the jumper now in his hands and then back at the old lady again.

In the end, he just decided that it'd be better for John to have it.

"Thank you so much..." He murmured to the old lady and gestured to the boy. The boy beamed a smile at him and waved. And he felt a different side of him changed as ge waved back at the boy.  
He looked at the jumper once again. It seemed to be of John's size too.  
Smiling to himself he gestured his 'goodbyes' to the owners.

As he walked away, his mind automatically transported him into his mind palace. There he passed by John's room. He found John there, cup of tea in hand and reading a newspaper. Then he wandered the empty halls decorated with fairy lights. He was too busy of thinking about what will John wanted to do when they finish decorating—what will John say to him when he gives the jumper? Will John believe that it was given by someone to him?—and most importantly what John would think about the decors he bought.  
He was too busy, too occupied in fact that he barely hears the sound of blaring horns—the screeching of tires and the familiar scream of his voice—

_"Sherlock!"_

He turned just in time to see John running towards him in a slow motion. As if John's body was caught in a film and he couldn't help but smile because John looked ridiculous and handsome at the same time as the afternoon sunlight kisses his greying blonde hair—

_"John—"_ He whispered.

And just like that, his senses comes back to life as everything around him crashes. His visions turn upside down. He loses his grip from the bag of decors he bought. And all that's left was the jumper on his right hand, crumpled and damped with something thick.

He couldn't move.

He felt indescribable and immeasurable pain that made his eyes brimming with tears.

But what made them flow... was the image of John kneeling on the other side of the road across him—face frozen with the same expression he wore on that fateful day two years ago.

He tried to call out John's name again. But no word nor sound come out.  
He tried again but failed.  
He tried until all he could see are rea and white.

•=====•=====•

  
John took the steps of the stairs up to 221B two steps at a time. He would give anything in exchange for this dreadful feeling of arriving to no one, for a demon hound trailing behind him. It took all of his willpower to stop the flashbacks.

Upon reaching the flat's door, he fished out the spare key from his pocket, stabbed the keyhole and yanked open the door. His breathing ragged. He was sweating non-stop. He felt nauseous. Fear has crept from his stomach up to his chest. When he found the living room empty he almost succumb to the hollow feeling. His eyes searched frantically for the familiar mop of curls owned by the tall lithe figure of his flatmate. But all he could see was the living room in a mess. Holiday decors scattered here, there and everywhere. On the kitchen table lay a beautiful handmade wreath probably made by Mrs. Hudson while his worn-out armchair was draped with garlands of silver in colour. And there standing beside the fireplace, cleared off the taxidermy shelf, was a five-foot tall Christmas tree. His ears are ringing from the deafening silence that he just closed his eyes.

_No, it can't be. He's alr—_

"John? Is that you?"

John's eyes snapped open upon hearing the deep baritone voice coming from the bedroom. And it was enough to rein his emotions and compose himself. It was enough to finally found a strong ground to stand upon.

And then he saw him—Sherlock—standing by the bedroom door. His curls are glistening whenever a stray light catches in. He was holding a little Santa on his right hand and what seemed like a recently fixed miniature house on the left. He seemed to be just finished patching the roof and the walls together.

He continued watching Sherlock. The man glanced on his watch quickly, eyes narrowing and then back at him. Cupid bow lips set to a firm line. Head tilting up a little—and just like that John knew he was found out.

"It's just three hours since you've left, John."  
Sherlock said while eyeing him curiously. Then Sherlock walked with graceful steps out of his bedroom to proceed what he was doing earlier. Sherlock crouched down by the coffee table setting the little houses carefully. Such trivialities John didn't expect to see Sherlock working of.

He cleared his throat before breaking his silence.

"Yeah—I... uh—forgot something..."  
He replied lamely. His fists opens and closes as if trying to grip on something or to someone. He fidgeted from where he stood. Not knowing what to do with his hands, he let them fall limply on his sides.

Sherlock turned sideways at him eyebrows raised. Gracefully straightening up, once again John became a subject, a mystery for the man's eyes. He knew his whole body reactions was being read by Sherlock like a book. He knew he couldn't lie to Sherlock Holmes.

He gave the man a terse nod.

"Shouldn't you be in bed? I told you to rest and get enough sleep. You haven't still fully—"

And again, he catches himself before saying it. Fully recovered, fully back on yourself—

Sherlock must've sensed his predicament that the man walked towards him with careful steps stopping just an arm's length. This isn't new to him, the man always finds personal space invaluable.

But this time to his surprise Sherlock took his dominant hand and rests it on his own. And just like that, his fingers automatically moved in search for signs of life.

What a silly thought—

But still, John closed his eyes as he felt Sherlock's pulse throbbed against his fingers. He didn't know why but the act made him shiver. And Sherlock let him.

Sherlock's hand was warm against his as well as the man's body heat. Calming, alluring and rooting his feet to the ground while his hand on the otherhand was cold with sweat.

Cold sweat caused by the flashbacks that he allowed to finally invade him just this once.

_He shouted his name, and Sherlock turned to him wearing the most beautiful smile he had ever seen—only for him. He could tell that Sherlock said his name as well but it's as if time stopped in a blink of an eye._

_John was rooted on the spot after the white van clashed with his flatmate's lithe body. Sherlock was like a doll, instantly thrown a good distance away and landed just across him. Decors scattered and broke, while the fabric Sherlock was holding remained on his hands. Blood pooled and screams and shouts sounded all at once. Horns blared, footsteps here and there and distant voices calling him and asking him if he was alright._

_And still he was there rooted on the road but now slumped on his knees. He remained staring at Sherlock lying on the cold pavement, fingers twitching, mouth and nose trickling with fresh crimson blood, and until pale eyes slowly closed. The same familiar thing happened and still he couldn't do anything to stop it. His mind debated that the previous was just a stage—oh how he wished that this one was too. He didn't even know when they reached the hospital. When his mind regained its processing state, he learned that it was Greg who helped them, for he ran after Sherlock when a new case arrived. Greg was the one who saw the commotion and immediately called an ambulance._

_Mycroft informed, doctors summoned, surgery performed. In three weeks Sherlock was back on his feet again. Although there were occasional nightmares, and relapse, John never left Sherlock's side until now that his flatmate reassured him he could be left alone._

"John..."

His name was murmured as if it was a well kept secret. And as if Sherlock pushed a vein inside his brain, the dreadful thoughts stopped at the sound of his voice.

John hummed in response not trusting himself to speak for he might break whatever kind of string that pulls them together.

He felt Sherlock's free hand cupped the back of his neck, pressing their foreheads together. And again, his eyes closes as he refrain himself from whimpering at Sherlock's proximity. He could feel the ghost of Sherlock's breaths. So near... and yet...

"I apologize."  
Sherlock mumbled.

John swallowed an invisible lump on his throat before answering, "For what?"  
He whispered back.

"For... causing you—pain again."  
He barely heard the last two words as Sherlock chose to drop his voice low.

"Don't be. It can't be helped, Sherlock. It was an accident," was all he could say.

John felt really stupid. Here he was worrying for nothing. Sherlock was well and alive. They made it through. Something has changed—Yes. And they haven't really talked about it.

Part of what he should really be thankful of was Sherlock listening to him, finally. Eat, sleep, rest—they haven't accepted any cases from NSY that needed legwork. And their friend DI Lestrade has been helpful also. To make sure Sherlock's brain kept working he was visiting them with small cases that Sherlock could solve.

They stayed in that position for a while, when they were greeted by a knock on the door.

It was Mrs. Hudson with grocery bags on her hands and beaming a smile at them.

"Boys! _Finally!_ But—don't forget to do that _under_ the _mistletoe_."

She winked at them knowingly then left as fast as she arrived shutting the door behind her.

John cleared his throat as he awkwardly extricate himself from Sherlock's grip. Close to his feet, he finds an ornament just under his armchair. He picks it up cautiously while his flatmate seemed to stand rooted on the spot. He gave Sherlock's hand a gentle squeeze as he placed the ornament there. The man blinked at the thing on his hand as if confused on what to do with it. Without a word Sherlock then walked towards his bedroom and shuts the door.

_An awkward moment, indeed._ He thought.

The flat remained quiet as John sighed and went back on continuing decorating the Christmas tree.

_The right day will come, Mrs. Hudson.  
And I will. _He thought once again

John smiled to himself as Sherlock quietly pads back to the living room throwing him a small sheepish smile and joins him with the rest of decorating.

By the coffee table, three sets of little houses with a Santa Claus hanging on its chimneys are aligned meticulously and displayed. Under the Christmas tree, a sole wrapped box was placed with his name. He actually knew what it was, but the other present that he only needed was already _here_ , standing beside him.

John still couldn't erase the smile on his face as he silently watched Sherlock—eyes narrowed with confusion on what to do with the fairy lights that ended up entangled on his feet.


	2. Star-gazing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock and John goes stargazing—more or less. *smirks*

It was a Tuesday at eight o'clock in the evening when Sherlock dropped by at my work. To say that I was utterly surprised was an understatement. He rarely visits me at work. Because his own work eats much of his time alone. Not to mention that all of the cases he took the past few days all needed legwork and as much as I want to be with him my work just wouldn't let me.

So on that evening when I found him sitting at the patient's waiting area while I prepare to time out of work, it made me wonder if something extremely bad happened—blown the flat or something.

Sherlock was focused looking at his phone as if waiting for a text message or a call when I walked to him.

"Sherlock?"  
I call to him. His head snaps sharply at my direction I worried that he might've broken a vein. Indeed he might. His free hand ran up to the back of his neck and rub tightly.

"Ow..."  
I hear him wince as he seem to spot the aching vein.

I mutter an apology. He seem a bit jumpy these days. As if he was anxious, really anxious.

"I'm fine, John," I hear him say, and I nod. Then he stood up, brushing the invisible dusts on his coat, fixing his scarf a bit and staring me down like he always do. And just like that, I knew he'll come up with something he unlikely to do. The nurses on the clinic couldn't seem to wait either for most of them are snickering and giggling. Some are even staring at Sherlock's tall, graceful presence—despite the sharp look in his pale greenish-grey eyes and the cheekbones.

After a stretch of silence, of just our eyes meeting one another, he finally spoke again—rather quickly.

"Doyouwanttoseethestarswithme?"  
He bit his lower lip for he knew I couldn't understood what he said.

So to save him from embarassment, I lean in closer to whisper in between us, "Sherlock, slowly... Okay?"

I watch him swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing up then down—obviously, I couldn't resist but stare.

Then he nods and said in that deep baritone voice of him, "Watch the stars with me John,"

By Jove, I think I was just asked out. But before I could even give my answer the sod Sherlock Holmes has escaped out of the clinic. This will definitely be the gossip headliner for a week.

But because it's unusual that a Sherlock Holmes asks you to watch the stars over a perfect murdered and mutilated body... I went along.

####

What I didn't expect was the place where we'll be stargazing— _Barts_.

Of all the places, well, I should've known—expect the unexpected from Sherlock. Of course, it's in the bloody rooftop where he... well, you know the story.

And he could tell by the way my heavy footsteps are resounding on the stairs as if I'm dragging ten clones of myself and having a difficulty over it—that I'm really done for.

Finally, he turned around, and looked at me. I was behind him—as always.  
(Mind you, not that kind of behind. At the moment, not yet.)   
So he's a few steps ahead and staring down at me. The illumination in the stairs creates a joined shadow of the two of us behind me.

Somehow I felt tired and I just want to go home. So I met his gaze and prepare to get angry. Only I didn't have the time to say anything for he took my hand and we ran the remaining steps and bolted through the door.

When we reached the top I didn't have the flashbacks. Barts rooftop was so different at night. It's like a total different place from when it's day. The cold night breeze blows on my face as I walk away from the door. The rooftop was still damp from the afternoon rain.  
Below, fairy lights dance from inaudible songs by the Christmas stalls. Below, the city of London was so alive.

"Oh. The weather report said... But why—"

A voice filled with disappointment came from Sherlock beside me. I glanced on my side and saw him looking up. I looked up as well and... found a cloudy sky.

"Well," I said, masking the disappointment for him as well. I could tell that he really wanted for this to happen smoothly. Bloody weather channel lacking accuracy this time. "Maybe... some other time?"

Sherlock then turns to me the same time I did.

I pinch the bridge of my nose willing myself not to remember the past.

"Sherlock—let's just go ho—"

"Three years, John. It's been three years since I jumped."

I caught my breath but I am sure he heard the harsh intake I did. Sherlock stares at me as he sat on the cemented floor. Balancing himself on the heels of his hands while his long legs stretched.

I made a clicking sound from my tongue and sat beside him.

"Is that what this is all about, then?" I ask him quietly. He looks away not long before I had a glimpse of a pained expression.

"Why here Sherlock? Seriously. There are alot of stargazing sites in the whole of London—" I reason.

"I want this day to be changed.." Sherlock answers to me. Now he has that melancholic look in his eyes as he continued. "I wanted to replace the nightmares I've caused you. That's why I thought of stargazing. I know how much you love stars."

How silly might that last part sounded, I smile to myself. But that was the past, I've always thought the nightmares will just go away eventually. As long as I knew he's alive—and still with me.

"Sherlock, you don't really have to—"

"Do you know..." I heard him whisper with hesitation. "Do you know... what was the last thing on my mind before I jumped?"

I spare him a glance and did wonder what it was on his mind before. But when he told me that it was all part of the Lazarus effect he and Mycroft planned beforehand to subdue Moriarty I lost interest. Mostly for the reason that I, (the best friend) was left out of it and the fact that I grieved for REAL. Those thoughts I only kept to myself. Because I couldn't really make that all about me, when there were also two other lives that Sherlock saved from his 'death'.

I cleared my throat and stared at the skies, "You uh... you thought of what you should do of course—where to start? Where to find the leads? Moriarty's network was vast wasn't it?"

I could feel Sherlock looking at me, as if contemplating about my answer.

"A bit, yes. But that's not really my last thoughts, no." His deep voice drawled on that reply.

And for some reason, it made my heart beat fast. I looked at him and felt my chest aching from something I couldn't explain. My throat felt parched all of a sudden.

Then Sherlock broke his silence, "When I ended the call... It was then that I realised, that I was—"

But Sherlock's phone rings before he could even finish what he was about to say to me. He took his phone out and answered it in a rather brusque tone of his voice.

"Yes. Yes—He's with me—Mmm—Got it. Be right there in twenty."

As if a rat jumped out of my chest, I breathed in relief and closed my eyes.

"It was Lestrade." Sherlock said. "He needs us at the crime scene. Details to follow on text. A gruesome murder, I expect, judging by the sound of his voice."

"Oh," was all I could say. "Right. Umm... Let's uh... re-schedule the stargazing then." I bit my lower lip and then ran my tongue over it. The sudden awkwardness in the air couldn't be denied.

"Of course. Let's go then."  
Sherlock started for the stairs already and I'm positively sure that this conversation will be forgotten again. So I thought of saying something ... to commend his efforts. I ran after him.

"Sherlock," I called out.

He was halfway on the stairs and I was still by the rooftop's door grasping the door knob firmly. He turned to me eyebrows raised, inquisitively demanding.

"You know, you've saved me when I met you. I was alone, I felt so alone. But you came and... you've become that... star, in my own darkness."

I swallowed hard. My throat felt parched once again.  
His chin tilted up regarding me with his 'deducing mode' look. Him looking at me like that, I watched in marvel as those pale eyes of his focused on me like I'm the single mystery in the world that he couldn't solve.

So before he could even criticised me I walked briskly, passing him.

"John—"  
I heard him called but because I couldn't talk about feelings at this time, I deflected him.

"We should hurry up you know. Crime scene—"

But I should've known also that I wouldn't be able to escape one Sherlock Holmes.  
I felt the tug on my sleeve before my step missed the stairs. And the next thing I knew, there's a strong arm on my waist and Sherlock was kissing me. His lips tasted of coffee instead of tea. Warm, soft, sweet against my rough lips. And his eagerness to snog the hell out of me was quite adorable too. I never knew where he learned kissing, not that we ever talked about it. But this thing that's happening between us felt like overdue. As if it it should've happened a long time ago.

He slid a leg in between mine and I couldn't help but moan as I felt the first stirring of our arousals evident. I felt dizzy. I couldn't breathe. So I just held on to his arms as he tilted my face with his hands and deepens our kiss, with tongue mind you. I should ask Sherlock how come he knew kissing and not knowing about the Solar System.

"Sherlock—"  
I gasped as Sherlock nipped kisses on my neck. God that was so sexy. I wound my fingers through his luscious curls and tugged. That earned me an explicit sound from him. Hah! We're square now, you mad git. I could say that I feel bolder now. I tugged him up as he was sliding a hand on the small of my back.

"No." I said firmly. Sherlock's eyes narrowed and his lips pouted. I gave him a fond smiled and kissed the tip of his pouted lips then tugged him in an embrace. He squeezed back and I know then that we had an understanding. When we parted, he had that cheshire cat grin planted on his face.

"Five more minutes. Crime scene could wait." Sherlock said to me, voice ragged. His eyes seemed to darken as we stood close.

And once again, I was tugged back on the rooftop. He gathered me in his arms and there he kissed me under the—now, starry skies.

 _Thank you,_ weather channel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I have no idea where this come from except for I was typing a few words with the M/M romance stories I have read for the past few days in mind. So I could say that this chapter was inspired by Felice Stevens, Brooke Blaine, Ellen Frank, Ivy Oliver, Erin M. Leaf and Jess Whitecroft. You've got to check their published M/M romance stories! :)


	3. "You—better watch out,"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the annual friendly Christmas marathon at John's village, he meets a beautiful boy that for the first time in his life, made him believe in love—at first sight.

  
John flexed his arms and straightened his back in the usual way he would do his warm-up exercises. The _30th Brooksville and Chestershire Villages' Friendly Christmas Marathon_ will begin in a short while where he is one of the volunteers to represent his street. This annual friendly competition has been one of his distractions this end of the year, while he release the stress brewing up inside him for the next month's final exams in school. Taking up Medicine, playing rugby and doing marathons is his life.

"Hey, Johnny!"

John smiled to himself as he turned sideways to regard the owner of the voice. It was Chloe. His crush since middle school. Chloe is wearing her gym outfit today and probably on her way there too. And John marveled at the curvature of the woman's body, plump arse, long blonde hair and sweet perfume. John tried his very best to behave successfully willing his dick to stand down. Having girls and occasional guys on his sides is nothing new to John. He's bisexual but he havem't really fallen in love. Ever since he hit puberty, flings are all good for drunken kissing, midnight handjobs and occasional frottage. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Hi, Chloe. On your way to the gym?"  
He asked while flashing her his most beautiful smile.

"Yeah, I am."

  
The girl surveyed him with visible lust in her eyes. John cleared his throat as he flexed his biceps even more. He saw Chloe's eyes darkened with desire and John knew he'll finally have someone to date later at the town's Christmas Ball and if he's lucky, he'll probably end up in her cozy bed.

"You've been working hard to keep this,"  
Chloe leaned closer to him while trailing a finger on his biceps.

John let out a hearty laugh, "Well, you know. I needed to be fit for these competitions and for my fans." He boasted himself.

Chloe smirked and was about to reply when a voice behind them spoke.

  
A deep baritone voice that John haven't heard all his life.

"Well, there are much better things to do than to oggle on someone's biceps and fantasize?"

Chloe gasped and turned red. Speechless and embarassed, she excused herself and walked to her friends.

John huffed angrily and turned to whoever spoke and made her potential date run away.

"What do you—"

  
He started but find himself at a loss for words when he saw the owner of the voice.

The boy was probably seventeen years old, yet he wasn't sure. He's quite tall, with dark unruly curls gloriously perched on his head. A column of pale neck, milky skin, lithe long figure, and those fingers—Good Lord—John has to close his eyes and open them again just to make sure he's not seeing an apparition. He was contented of admiring the boy in a tailored navy blue suit and black shoes, two buttons of his long sleeves unbuttoned but then the latter turns to him, giving him a view of pinkish plush lips and holy bloody hell—those eyes—John haven't seen those colouring of eyes before that he couldn't stop himself from saying,

"Beautiful... Curly Tops,"

The boy's unusual greyish eyes widens at him and John couldn't help but smirk. He might've caught the boy unguarded. The boy purses his lips clearly annoyed by what he said, though he couldn't understand why. The boy's really beautiful and has a curly hair. Obviously. But fine—alright, he's just teasing.

Just then the boy steps closer to him until they were face to face. God he's probably about four or five inches taller than him. And the thought of this boy towering over him on the bed, his dick throbbed.

"Stop patronizing me. You better watch out, John Watson. Not every single girl here in the village will bow before you."

At first, John couldn't speak. Curly Tops new his name! He chuckled and leaned even more closer to Curly Tops, "What? Curly Tops, you jealous?"

The boy raised an eyebrow at him. And John knew instantly that this boy doesn't back out easily.

"Don't worry, I don't care about the girls at this moment," John murmured low in between them and he knew that's the truth. Somehow this boy mesmerized him. And it's not helping that Curly Tops is now staring at his lips.

Feeling bold himself as every minute passes, John raked his gaze up and down of Curly Tops body and was rewarded with a blossoming blush of Curly Tops' cheekbones and neck.

God, he wanted to devour him.

Curly Tops cleared his throat and straightened himself. John knew a string of insults would follow so he thought of a silly way to shut up the boy.

"Alright, let's make a deal—" Curly Tops' eyes narrowed, giving him a smug look. "If I lose this marathon I will never approach any girl later at the Ball. But if I win, you will be my date at the Ball tonight."

"That was so ambitious of you." Curly Tops murmured.

John smirked. He knew he sounded manipulative. But he couldn't help it, this boy just makes him feel dominant despite of their height difference. If only Curly Tops wouldn't open his mouth. So once again, when the latter would likely to protest he didn't let his newfound interest finish.

"You—better watch out, Curly Tops. For I always get what I want. Who I want. See you at the finish line, gorgeous." He said while he winked and confidently walked on the starting line leaving a dazed, flushed and confused Curly Tops.

Oh fuck, he didn't even got to ask his name. When he turned to where he came from, the boy has blended already in the crowd.

"Johnny! Who are looking for?"

John turned behind him and saw Mike Stamford his classmate, eating a bag of chips.

"Oh I was looking for... A tall bloke with a curly hair and wearing a suit."

Mike's eyes widens in shock while John's eyes narrows.

"You've met the great Sherlock Holmes then? The Mayor's son And you lived?!—Wow."

John snorted, "I lived? What do you mean? Oh and he's the mayor's? Wow indeed. And I'm bisexual, Mike. I can be with—"

"I know, I know. It's just that. He's already engaged."

Fuck. And now what? He just experienced love at first sight with an angel and then he learns he's engaged?

Well, he should've really watched out. So it seems, the only reason to end this crazy idea he has. John needs to lose. If only winning and losing are that easy. Both consequences will affect him.

_Seriously, John. What's this mess you've got yourself into?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> —to be continued—


	4. Snowman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second part of "You—better watch out,"
> 
> — _beta'ed by CarmillaCarmine_ —

  
Sherlock willed himself to calm down. He was not having a panic attack but his insides are in a riot because of a certain university student named John Watson. Who wouldn't know John Watson? Since he arrived at his father's place two months ago, Sherlock have heard the gossips almost every single teenage girl around town was talking about. This John Watson, apparently, was every girl's dream. Whatever they mean about that. All he knows about John according to gossips, are one, he's a short gentleman. Two, he has a ridiculous soft blonde hair. Three, he has this beautiful ocean blue eyes and four, he's single. But judging on what he saw earlier when he had met him finally, the accuracy was suspicious enough to raise an alarm. He would only believe two out of four of it. The blonde hair and blue eyes, those are spot on.

Getting aware of his surroundings, he noticed that he was near John's house by the park.  
He stomped his boots to remove the snow that has pooled under it before he decided to sit in one of the park benches. John wouldn't be coming home soon, he was sure. The Christmas Ball probably has started.

How dare that John Watson strike a deal with him and lose in the end?! He doesn't want to admit—No he would not but—He did want John to win the marathon. He has the potential. But instead he let—Victor Trevor won.

Victor _WAS_ his fiancé. Their history goes way back from their parents. Their fathers are bestfriends that's why they've become childhood friends. Victor was older by two years to him. Luckily for Sherlock, his sexuality doesn't worry his parents at all. It was never an issue. He grew up with a loving family and spoiled occasionally. So when his parents decided to marry him off to Victor, he went along. He's seventeen and they wouldn't be living together until he turns twenty. That's the arrangement both parties agreed with.

Now going back on his predicament, Sherlock should've been happy that Vic won, but after meeting and seeing and smelling John Watson—Oh, the guy smelled good, alright. Sherlock didn't know if it was a natural smell on twenty-one year old medical students. A mixture of aftershave, chamomile tea and disinfectant. He felt dizzy when the guy leaned closer to him. And just thinking about John Watson's biceps—Dear Lord those strong arms. He was weakened by John Watson's confidence and strong personality. And after what happened earlier he went straight to his parents to announce that he wouldn't be marrying Vic. That was the first time that he felt sure of any decisions that he have made in his life. And to his surprise, his parents told him that earlier that morning, Vic expressed the same thing. And that his former fiancé has already been seeing someone else and didn't want to keep his own endeavours secret. Well, that's Victor Trevor for you—he's always been like that. And it's just two months anyway. But Sherlock being a good son, apologised to the ruckus the both of them had made. Thank goodness, their parents totally understand adding that should've let them decide whom to love and to marry.

With all things sorted, Sherlock closed his eyes to indulge on his innermost thoughts.

He imagined John Watson crowding him on the bench. His breathing became ragged as he thought of those blue eyes darkening with desire. He knew how John looked at him earlier. As if the man was a tiger ready to pounce on him. Now, that he's imagining it. He couldn't prevent himself from feeling the first state of arousal. He could feel the heat his body released. And he needs to go somewhere where he could take care of himself. Ugh. Transport.

He was about to leave when he heard the sound of footsteps and high pitched giggles coming on his way. Dread filled him. His back began to sweat. No one should see him lurking around near John's house.

Just when he's about to walk towards the opposite way, a figure emerged behind the huge trimmed hedges.

It was John Watson. A drunk John Watson. Swaying on his wobbly legs, momentarily stopped and then walked again.

Sherlock checked on his wrist watch, it's almost nine in the evening. The streets are empty. The lamps had just lighted and here he was still, now hidden by the corner while the snow started falling.

John started to walk again towards his direction and still wobbly. Sherlock watched quietly. But when John tripped on the snow covered road he couldn't help but worry. He glanced at the guy and saw him having difficulty getting up.

Sherlock took pity. So he went near John reaching out a hand. He felt pain first before it registered to him that John just pushed him. The force was too strong that his back slammed on the cabin's wall. He winced in pain as the wooden wall shook and the snow covering the roof of the small cabin fell over him like an avalanche.

Sherlock felt dizzy and extremely cold. He wanted to call John but his eyes fails him. He leaned on the wall for support as his consciousness drifts away.

••••

  
John felt he was the most stupid person in the planet. Fortunately, when his face slammed on the cold snow, it took him almost ten minutes to sober up. But what he didn't expect, was seeing Sherlock Holmes, arm's length away from him slumped on his knees and wrapped in the snow. Literally, unconcious and looking like a snow man. Panic risen through him like he was doused in ice cold water. He pushed himself up and crawled towards the guy.

"S-Sherlock!"  
He shouted with hoarse voice.

_Shit! How long was I out?_

Frantically, he swept away the huge chunks of snow that almost molded on Sherlock's body. Then the curls, the neck, chest and knees. Sherlock was almost buried on that snow onslaught. And right now, Sherlock is his reaponsiblity.

John carefully dragged Sherlock towards his house calling his name from time to time. He slapped the boy's face lightly and even tried to resuscitate him. But still, Sherlock was gone out. Locking the door of his rented house, he went to turn the heater on. Then he went to the fireplace throwing all of his woods and started the fire burning.

A couple of frightening minutes passed, when the fire was crackling already, he laid the blankets and sheets tucked near the sofa and carefully placed Sherlock in the middle of the bundle. He checked for signs of hypothermia and relieved that Sherlock hasn't gone there.

He muttered an apology as he undressed Sherlock leaving only the boy's black pants. He stripped himself off clothes as well for it was also soaking wet. The icicles that clung on their sleeves has now melted. Amidst the purplish marks on the shoulders and the pale bluish lips, Sherlock still looks ethereal. 

  
Once again, John marveled at the beautiful sight of Sherlock Holmes. Milky smooth skin spread in front of him, he could easily— _He's engaged._

He closed his eyes seallowed. He willed the voice inside his head to shut up. Of course _he knew._ He's not planning anything bad to happen.

He checked on Sherlock's pulse and was relieved to find it stable. Sherlock was just sleeping now. John then pulled the thick blankets up to Sherlock's chin covering his entire body— including the enticing and distracting bulge of Sherlock's pants.  
Jesus—he really needs to get laid soon.

After a while he lie down on the other side watching Sherlock sleep.

He needs a plan before Sherlock wakes up. In case Sherlock asks, he needs to explain everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> —to be continued—


	5. Believe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Do you believe in love at first sight?"  
>  He asked Sherlock hesitantly._
> 
> _"No."  
>  Sherlock's immediate answer with an amused smile on his face as if John had asked a silly question almost triggered his anxiety._
> 
> _He nodded, a stiff one, and managed to smile. "Oh. No..."_
> 
> _"Mm. No," says Sherlock. "—not until I met you."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the last part! Spoiler alert! Shameless blowjob by me. I mean—by Sherlock to John. xD

He woke up feeling the warm firm expanse of skin beneath his fingers. It felt so warm and cozy that Sherlock nuzzled on the hollow space his face could reach while his fingers automatically trailed lingering touches on the said skin. Sweet and musky smell filled his nose. And although it was a brief contact they had. He would recognize that smell wherever.

 _John_.

John who's awake now. He could feel him. Ragged breathing, heartbeat eratic.  
Sherlock felt bold all of a sudden. He slid his leg in between John's shorter ones and strong arms pulled him closer immediately making the first stirrings of his arousal bump on something hard as well. He looked down and indeed John's grey pants was already tainted w/ precum. He licked his lower lip and positioned himself on top of John and grinded.

He caught his breath while John cursed as their hardened lengths made contact.

Time to punish John Watson for losing the marathon.

••••

" _Ah! S-Sherlock..._ "  
  
John gasped. His hoarse voice echoed inside the still dark room. Morning light was just starting to seep through the windows. He arched his back when Sherlock dived down to his chest, fumbling his nipples with teeth. And John thought he could come just by this.

He bit a curse as Sherlock's warm mouth and sinful tongue wrapped and lapped continuously. His felt dizzy with arousal. His back arched and his body squirmed. He needed the release.

Sherlock's palms traveled over his chest, lovingly caressing him. His length ached as it long for release.

"S-Sherlock, _please_..."

And at last, Sherlock crawled down on him, under the heavy blanket draped over them and worked on him.

His release almost escaped him the moment he felt Sherlock pulled his pants off and his length freed. But the posh git knows. Whenever he felt coming Sherlock stops. His back arched once again as Sherlock's mouth swallowed him whole, head bobbing, working and bringing him on the edge. It taking almost all of his strength not to come as Sherlock continued to pleasure the head of his length while long fingers fumbled on his sac.

Bloody hell, he needs to come and if he needs to force Sherlock then so be it. The guy started it. He slid his fingers through Sherlock's curls and pulled up. Sherlock's mouth released his length with an obscene sound. Their mouths clashed, arms tangled, hips grinded. John reached down and took their lengths on hand. He tugged and twisted from that awkward position but he didn't care even if his wrist hurts.

"John...."

Sherlock's voice by his ear was pure ecstasy. And when the guy bit on his collarbone that does it. As if jumping off a cliff, John came hard, and Sherlock followed eventually. The evidence of their love-making pooled on their stomachs. The smell of sex and sweat was like an intoxicating perfume in the air.

Just pure bliss.

"So," says Sherlock. His deep voice heavy and hoarse.   
John looked up at the guy and he just couldn't help but place a kiss on his temple. So he did. And when he does, Sherlock blinked at him as if he'd grown a three horns.

John chuckled, "What? You haven't been kissed in the forehead before?" He asked as he leaned once again and placing a chaste kiss over Sherlock's plushed lips.

It just felt natural that they were doing this. Sherlock chased his lips and accepted his tongue while the guy caught his lower lip. He rubbed on Sherlock's biceps slowly as their kisses turned passionate. Limbs tangled once again, arousal brewing for the second time. But John knows, this was more than a one night stand attraction.

He pulled away a bit, and took a shaky breath. Sherlock was just watching him silently. Flushed and breathing heavily as him. Pale grey eyes now darkened and focused on him, the guy was still aroused. But he needs to know something first. He needed to. No matter how frightening the answer could be. This will tell him if he needed to stay away completely and forget. If he needed to tuck away this memory or if he would fight for the man he had learned to love just in twenty-four hours.

"You have a question."  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. Impatience visible on his face.

John sighed, "Alright—Do you believe in love at first sight?"  
He asked Sherlock hesitantly.

"No."   
Sherlock's immediate answer with an amused smile on his face as if John had asked a silly question almost triggered his anxiety.

Sherlock's response made John's heart deflated. When it comes to girls, he rarely needed to do something for them to ogle at him. That was true, not to be boastful. Partly because he's a varsity player in the school's rugby team.

He nodded, a stiff one, and managed to smile. "Oh. No..."

The fire spurt its last flames as Sherlock laid his head on his chest.

"Mm. No," says Sherlock. "—not until I met you."

John thought he heard it wrong.

"W-What?" He stammered that made Sherlock laughed, before the man proceed to repeat what he just said.

"I said, I didn't believe in love at—"

But John covered a palm over Sherlock's mouth.

"Yeah—Alright—I know—But—aren't you... Engaged?" He stated quickly but the last word came out almost inaudible.

Sherlock just smiled at him pulling closer.  
After a stretch of silence, Sherlock spoke again.

"I was—but like I said, I met you. I told my parents that I didn't want to marry Victor just because they thought it'd be convenient that the person I'll marry was someone who knew me since childhood. Or because my father and Vic's are bestfriends. And they told me they understand. And that Victor feels the same thing."

John was silent. He didn't trust himself to speak. He didn't want to say something that would upset Sherlock.

"Oh," was all he could say. He can't believe he's having this. Sherlock Holmes in his arms and no one or nothing in between them—except for the last pieces of their clothes. The thought was enough to make himself twitch down there.

Sherlock felt it as well and smirked. But before he could say something, Sherlock spoke.

"I believe I'm falling in love with you, John Watson. And it's the greatest feeling this season has brought to me."  
Sherlock said looking at him thoughtfully.

John was left speechless again and he couldn't help but smile. He felt warm all over. As if he's inside a dream. So instead he took Sherlock's hand, threading their fingers.

"And I—am in love with you as well, Sherlock Holmes. And I never believe in miracles but here you are." He said softly.

Sherlock blushed and John leaned for a kiss. But Sherlock has other plans. His lover smirked at him while long fingers drew circles on the small of his back.

"Mmm..." Sherlock drawled.

"Shall we so something about that then?"  
Sherlock said to him, looking down at his swelling bulge.

John groaned when he twitched again. He had never felt this randy before.

"God, I can't believe this. It's never that attentive before—you traitor." He complained glaring down at himself. Sherlock laughed.

"But I think it's enough about me."

John smirked as Sherlock realised what he was about to do. He effortlessly flipped Sherlock and straddled him. John grinded his hips making Sherlock groan.

John took the blanket wrapping it around him and Sherlock, hiding them into the world. He heard Sherlock's breathing slowed as he proceed to pleasure his lover.

They move languidly together, never thinking of anything else nor anyone else.

Just them, together, as one.

—FIN—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's my *sweating bullets* first attempt on writing a bit of smut. Don't judge me, I don't have a firsthand experience. xD
> 
> I do hope you have enjoyed the three-part prompt! Talk to me on Twitter @allsovacant! Thank you! x


	6. the Fireplace's tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And as the years gone by, I know I'm no longer the same. I will be destroyed and will be part of something new again._  
> 
> 
> _But most of all, I was a part of their home._
> 
> _And they have been a part of me.  
>  Let it never be forgotten._  
> 

I was already me when she bought the whole place. She's made it a flat for rent. Said she wanted to start a new life after her husband was executed.

That abusive prick.  
Fortunately, this tall lanky man with a long coat helped my lady owner. His name was Sherlock. Said he's a detective. A consulting detective as he would correct everyone. And in return, lady owner offered him a discounted price for accomodation. Still, the man insisted he needed a flatmate.

But in my opinion, with that big mouth of his, despite his intelligence, he will never get a flatmate. That attitude could set off World War III.

So one night, I was surprised. Sherlock brought with him a man. He says the man will be the flatmate.

And it's true! The man appeared to be of the good sort. Former soldier, Army doctor, served the queen. His name was John.

In a span of twenty-four hours, the two men became the best of friends. I've watched them solve crimes together, laugh together, yell at each other. Do things that they end up regretting. Watched them fight intruders, Sherlock even saved my owner over a fight about a phone. Goodness, Thanks to him.

But if there's one thing that no one but me noticed, It was the depth of what Sherlock and John was feeling for one another.

I see Sherlock looking at John when the latter wasn't. When John's on a date, Sherlock punished me with the most haunting pieces of music he played on his violin. It extends even on the wee hours of the morning when John fails to come home. And when John does, the volley of confrontations about mixing chemicals, soiling the plates, lack of cleanliness inside the fridge, lack of sleep, constant reminder of 'Eat, Sherlock!'—misunderstandings—I got used to their domesticity for most of the times they bicker like an old married couple.

Until one day, Sherlock kills himself and John comes home alone.  
His jacket was thrown off the sofa.  
His hair messy like he haven't gone to bath for days. He refused to work on the clinic. That went on for a week. For months. For a year.

He was just there in front of me. Sitting on his worn-out armchair. Staring blankly in front of him. Sometimes he'll draw his gun out and stare at it. And I was helpless, just looking at my owner balance his life between his hands.

I couldn't do anything. Then the day came that John no longer come around.

When my lady owner dusted me, she said to herself that she's missing her boys. And that for Christmas she wishes to have them in front of me, with me warming them all over a Christmas dinner.

I wished that too.

Then one night when it was raining so hard, Sherlock came home.

It was the day before Christmas.  
I will never forget that. The weather was quite cold. Hence, my flames were alive. I swore my flames almost escaped my walls to show how happy I was.

My lady owner and Sherlock hugged each other. She's like a mother who have found her son again. Sherlock said that he'll choose a different day to explain everything. And all he mentioned was that he needed to take care of some serious things and that the most important thing was he's alive. And my lady owner held on to that.

That Christmas eve, a broken hearted John came home. And when he saw Sherlock standing in front of me, playing his violin, I fear they would yell at each other again. But to my surprise, John's soft footsteps padded on the wooden floor as he strode towards Sherlock and hug the man on his back.

I watched as the two men reconciled. Standing in the middle of the living room—tears flowed, heartaches forgotten, secrets unveiled, apologies given and accepted—and a promise of new beginning shone for Sherlock and John.  
They were lost once, but through each other they were found.

I was there when they whispered words of love, words of care. When they took care of each others bodies in a cold winter's night. Draped only in warm blankets, watching as I exhibit flames in the air.

I was there when they became real old married couple. When one studied bees while the significant other became a full time writer. I was there when one could no longer move and has to be rushed to the hospital. I was there when only one came home. And I was still there when no one did.

Once I was a fireplace. Just a part of the place where my inhabitants once existed.  
And as the years gone by, I know I'm no longer the same. I will be destroyed and will be part of something new again.

But most of all, I was a part of their home.

And they have been a part of me.  
Let it never be forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by the Nickel Creek song, 'The Lighthouse's Tale' which tells the tragic story of a couple from the lighthouse's point of view (hence, why I thought of the fireplace at 221b being witness to almost everything important that happened in John and Sherlock's life). It was such a beautiful yet haunting song despite the acoustics background. If you have listened to it, do let me know. I love sharing my love for music. :)


	7. a flashback of a memory

It's just a case. An ordinary one. Of chasing a murderer down the market of Borough all the way to Waterloo Underground Station. It just happened so fast that John didn't see it coming.

He should've known that his boyfriend wouldn't listen to him when he told the man to run—instead, Sherlock pushed him hard aside, taking the shot for him. A shot on the back of his head.

He was so stunned that Greg bumped into him and if the DI hadn't shouted—

_'John! Sherlock's shot! Move!'_

—and went on chasing the murderer that almost escaped, he would still be standing on the railway ten steps away from Sherlock's bleeding head.

Hence,brought the two of them at Barts two weeks before Christmas. Sherlock lying on the boundaries of life and death called the hospital bed. And John wishing he could give the rest of his life just for his boyfriend to survive.

The shot went on the back of Sherlock's head. The following seventy-two hours inside the operating room where very crucial and to John's words dreadful beyond reality.

John never believed in miracles, he once said there was a reason why he survived the ambush in Afghanistan. He came home alive with only a shot on the shoulder and an imaginary limp. His body complete, not missing any parts unlike his former comrades who are either burned to death, decapitated or blinded by the shrapnels that took most of them. That made them took their insanity with them to the grave.

And then he met Sherlock, he just knew Sherlock was the reason. The memories of those days and nights alone in the forest, or bleeding in the sand—Sherlock replaced them all with his existence.

###

The surgery went out to be successful and John believed in miracles. But when Sherlock's doctor said that the man might've lost some of his memories, John asked for another miracle. The doctor did suggested that he should ask about something memorable that happened to them and see how Sherlock respond to it.

"Do you... remember our first case? That wasn't a long time ago but well you might—I mean, you wouldn't be—"

"For God's sake, John." Sherlock said in a tired and irritated voice. "If you'd be a little bit—kind enough to finish one sentence before jumping into another and drawing out a conclusion that would be marvelous."

Well, that stung. He was surprised to hear Sherlock's voice cold, firm, absent of its usual lilt.

"Sorry," He began to stand, "I'll just—" He pointed on the door. But before he could walk out, he felt a tug on his sleeve jacket. When he looked down, Sherlock's hand clutched on his sleeve, and the said hand crept slowly entwining on his.

 _Ba-dump_ —his heart went on—

Another tug, and another one when he still hadn't sit down. In the back of his mind, it almost made him smile. As if there's a fast turn of events. A quick change in Sherlock's attitude.

And he couldn't just fight that. Not when he's the reason Sherlock almost—died.

The road to recovery might be painful but for the both of them, he would help Sherlock endure.

###

"John, I—"

Sherlock hesitated, the change in his voice was so noticeable. It almost made him cringe. He sounded weak, small, afraid. He's not like this. He's a genius. He's strong in his own way. But when he saw the murderer aimed his gun to John, he ran the hallway of his mind palace towards the man and pushed him aside. Pushed him out of harm's way. Which was a stupid move because he ended up almost dead.

_Why was John standing away from him?_

He tugged on John's sleeve and the man leaned on him finally. With no words said, he rested his bandaged head on John's stomach. He could feel John's warmth and all he could do was close his eyes.

"I apologise, John."  
Sherlock murmured as he let his hand made its way behind John's back and crumpled the man's shirt.

_I love you so much._

"It's alright, love. I should be the one to apologise. I... I should be—"

"No. No, John."  
He said cutting off John. He looked up and saw John's eyes reddened with unshed tears. Reaching a hand, he cupped John's face. The man leaned on his touch.

"Don't do that again, Sherlock."  
John whispered to him. _You know I love you so much._

"What you're asking is impossible, I promised to protect you." He said.

"—and I promised that I'd do too."  
John countered.

He felt John's hands enveloped his shoulders and gave him a firm squeeze.

"I do remember our first case."  
He murmured against John's clothes.

"Good."  
John replied. It was a one word answer but he could feel John's smile.

"It was an unforgettable memory. You were a marvel. You saved my life first—"

John heaved a sigh, "No. _You_ saved me first."

Sherlock looked up and stared at the man whom he knew he would do anything for and he knew John would do the same for him.

Then he saw a flashback of just one of the memories that even if his mind forgets his heart wouldn't.

_He took the phone being offered to him and right there and then, he knew it was a beginning of something._

Sherlock hummed and smiled to himself as he let John hug him to his heart's content.

Another memory to be tucked away on his mind palace. 


	8. the third music room / adagio cantabile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol @ me. Here I am again writing a TBC work. Pardon me my loves. But hopefully, you'll like this messed up new one. 
> 
> Without much further a do—
> 
> Part 1 of the third music room / adagio cantabile

The Triangle or the university park was packed with students having recess, studying for exams, finishing projects and the likes _dull_ students do.

Sherlock ruffled his curls and heaved a sigh. He already went through his violin part the nth time for a special event in his family's life and perfected it to his heart's content but still, he felt out of his element.

And that's because everywhere around him was _too noisy_. No—he's not having this. He needed to find a place secluded where he could recite his solo piece without any disturbance.

He looked around hoping to find a new haven. Just then his gaze wondered up on the upper third building and stopped on the huge red coloured oak doors.

The Third Music Room.

 _Perfect_.

Smiling to himself, Sherlock stood up. He placed his violin back on its case and gathered up his music sheets then made his way towards the building.

Ever since he was a child, music has been his refuge and using it as an escape from the harsh truth that has made him aloof from everyone.

His dearest and sweet Mother, Estella Adrianna Holmes, died from the results of a tragic accident when she was pregnant with Sherlock. She was practicing a solo piece on her violin (the one that Sherlock uses now) in the middle of the stage for a Christmas presentation when the chandelier above her unscrewed and fell. She lost so much blood that she was only able to give birth to a premature Sherlock before she succumbed to her death. Her husband and her bestfriend saw it happened. But as Sherlock grew up, no one recalled what happened. His mother had been forgotten, even by his father. And now, he was about to play for his mother's bestfriend and his father who are about to get married before Christmas. Just thinking about it makes Sherlock cringed. It's not that he doesn't want to see his father happy again, because he very seemed so, ever since Lovelle replaced the role of being a mother to him and a wife to his father.

But he really doesn't want to have a new mother. And there's something about that woman which unsettled him.

He reached the steps laiden with red carpet and eventually the twin oak doors.

For some reason, the music room aren't much in use ever since the ugly fire that happened in the middle of the night that took the life of a student several years ago. The student was reportedly got trapped inside and died of suffocation. Hence, the ghost stories surrounding the third music room has become a frequent gossip starter.

The room on the otherhand had become a storage for the musical instruments that have seen its days. Hence the name, _third music room_ —newly renovated third building + musical instruments + storage.

Sherlock reached out on a small space by the corner of the door. The maintenance he had befriended before named Mike, told him it's the secret keeper. The key for the music room was hidden on that space. He was told that he could sneak in anytime he wanted. But he should make sure that no one would see him enter and no one would see him leave.

And most importantly, if he hears anything strange inside— _leave immediately._

The key was already in between his fingers when he heard a loud noise that came from inside the room.

As if something heavy had fallen. He was too surprised that he snucked out his hand immediately resulting to his skin being scraped at the edges of the sharp space.

He cursed under his breath and fetched the key with his other hand.

Now his scraped skin tingled and was about to swell. Sherlock pouted and glared at the door.

_You seemed to be a really unlucky place._

He then put the key to the hole, unlocked and turned the knob and pushed it open slowly.

The creaking sound the door made was one of the creepiest noise he had heard. 

_Not too much for ghost stories though._

Sherlock then closed the door behind him, placing his things over the chair.

The room has definitely become a storage. Several musical instruments lay broken scattered on the floor. This might've been the sound that trombones, cymbals, fiddles, oboe, accordion, keyboard and even a few violin with broken strings. Sherlock looked at them sadly. He could feel his heart breaking just seeing the instruments.

On the other part of the room, there are also some instruments but this time they aren't broken but seemed to be in the process of being repaired. There are assortment of tools, tuners and string cutters resting over a small work table. And on the table, a violin was being repaired.

Sherlock walked towards the table trailing his fingertips on the body of the violin. Evidently, the violin has been polished to look like new again. Its nubs has scratches but all in all it looked working.

A noise once again startled Sherlock. It seemed to be coming further on inside the music room.

He tiptoed quietly, evading the feet of the chairs that are upturned and the violin bows scattered on the floor.  
  
But to his surprise, when he reached the corner where the sound was supposed to be coming from, instead he found a door. It was much smaller than the twin oaks that almost only a twelve-year old child could pass if one doesn't lower himself to the floor and crawled

He crouched and tried to deduce what could be behind it. He breathed on his errant curl and decided to push the door instead. Exactly how many secrets does Mike hides in here? Then he crawled to get inside.

When he managed to get inside and on his knees, a view of another table welcomed him. He dusted off himself and surveyed the works in front of him. There lay various sheets of music that Sherlock knows by heart. Brahms, Mozart, Bach and his personal favourite Beethoven, and other musicians. Sherlock looked at them one by one.

Then his attention was caught by a single piece of piano sheet. It was painstakingly written in a scrawled-like manner. And Sherlock marveled at the notes written. He could almost hear them inside his head playing. He preferred the violin but he also plays the piano as his father taught him. The notes of this sheet though, the notes—Sherlock closed his eyes imagining he could hear the first ten notes of the sheet. Melancholic, serene, calm, smooth—but the feeling of longing was much more evident. A feeling he—

 _"WHO the hell are YOU?! and WHAT are you doing here?!"_ a strong firm voice bellowed in the silence of the room.

Sherlock's head snapped at the source of the voice.

The wind blows on the open windows that he failed to notice earlier, such as the man, now, standing before him. A good twenty-steps away.

A man barefooted wearing nothing but his sinful black boxer briefs hiding a resting bulge—blue eyes piercing him a questioning look. A towel was frozen on his hand, curled on a messed up fresh from the bath-fuzzy blonde-grey-streaked hair (and Sherlock wondered how they smell and if they were soft... and...). He gasped as he immediately snapped back into reality. He crouched down and crawled back as fast as he could to where he came from.

"Oi! Hold on a sec!" shouted the man.

Sherlock got up on his feet once he got passed that forsaken hole and started running while evading the instruments on his feet.

"I'm sorry! I-I didn't mean to—" he shouted back.

Then the man breathing heavily just appeared from the other side of the room cornering him. How did he do that he had no idea.

_Fuck. There must be a trap door._

"I-I'm really sorry, Mister." He said.

The man's eyebrow narrowed. He folded his arms his chest.

_God, those biceps. That should be illegal._

The man's chest was a bit muscled as well as the illegal biceps. A scar decorated his left shoulder that looked like _'the Death of the Nebula'_ , a painting that Sherlock loved—a starburst.

After the man's scrutizing look on him, he spoke again. But instead of preaching him on trespassing, it was something Sherlock didnt expect.

"It would really do you good if you'll just stop right there and let me take a look at that bleeding hand." He heard the man say calmly this time.

But Sherlock was still too stunned at the glorious body in front of him that he didn't noticed the man stepped forward and snapping two fingers in front of him.

"Huh?" He said blinking and dumbfounded.

To his surprise, the man let out a chuckle and Sherlock thought it was the softest thing he had heard.

The man then leaned at him ( _so close... Oh Lord..._ ) so close that Sherlock thought he'd heard the most beautiful adagio cantabile ever composed while his heart contrasted its tempo.

"I said, let's do something about that hand of yours."  
The man murmured pointing at his hand. His piercing blue eyes gone soft.

Sherlock then looked at his hand and saw it was bleeding. He caught his breath and panicked. Bleeding—fuck—he has a weakness seeing blood. Why was this even happening to him?

"B-Blood—" he breathed.

And just like that, Sherlock's world turned upside down and the last thing he remembered was the feeling of strong arms being wrapped around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> —to be continued—


	9. Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John held his breath as he let the ending notes of the piano accompany the tall, lithe figure, gracefully holding his bow over his violin unaware of his surroundings. Lost in the music they played._
> 
> — part 2 of the third music room/adagio cantabile

When Sherlock regained his consciousness he was serenaded by a beautiful piano piece he had heard countless times before.

It was entitled, _Almaz_. A piano ballad written with lyrics about a refugee couple that described a rare form of love. And the same piece he'll be playing for his father's wedding.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the blonde man now dressed in white sleeves and black slacks, sitting in front of the dirty white coloured grand piano. His blonde greying hair was complimented by the sunlight seeping through the open windows.

The hustle and bustle of the chattering students passing on The Triangle sounded far away. For Sherlock focused his ears on the classic music he was hearing.

He watched the man played and catalogued every move. A small pair of short hands, strong yet graceful, touching the piano keys. For one second Sherlock thought how would those fingers feel on his skin. Such dangerous thoughts he knew he shouldn't ventured into.

He lifted his gaze to the man and found the latter staring at him as well.

Sherlock caught his breath.

The man's blue eyes, soft yet seemed to pierce on his whole being just like earlier when they met. And he felt hypnotised as the man continued to play. A sensual dance between the piano keys and his musician.

Looking away for a minute, his gaze lands at the table beside the long windows.

There lies his violin case.

Puzzled how it ended there, he looked back at the man to question him. But the man only nodded at his instrument as if urging him to play.

He narrowed his eyes and walked near the table, feeling the leather case. He flipped open the lid and pulled out the Stradivarius, balancing it in his hands. He picked up the bow and with aching familiarity, he tucked the violin in between his chin and let the bow guide the strings to accompany the notes of the grand piano.

Their gazes met once again as the two of them played. And for the very first time, he felt complete.

###

When their impromptu duet ended, John held his breath as he let the ending notes of the piano accompany the tall, lithe figure, gracefully holding his bow over his violin unaware of his surroundings. Lost in the music they played.

And John marveled at the way the boy's body blend with their music. He swayed with his notes. John had been playing the piano ever since he was five years old inspired by his alcoholic father. And was almost dubbed as a piano genius if only he was able to achieve and further his studies but no—he abandoned his dreams of being a musician when he enlisted in the army. But after he was shot in the shoulder that left him with gruesome nightmares, dismissed from duty and homeless—his love for music saved him once again. Only it ended him working as a repair man for the university's orchestral group. But it was better than being broke and living in the streets. The pay was good and he survived—and meeting this beautiful boy surely saved him from boredom.

Speaking of which, the tall guy with a mop of raven curls, scratching the head of his violin was now gaping at him.

John cleared his throat, "That. was. fantastic."

The guy blinked at him, then decided to put his violin back on its case. "Oh..." was all the guy could say while still holding the bow.

John smiled and watched as the guy's cheekbones tinged of red.

"I'm John. What's your name?"

The guy blinked once again at him tucking an errant curl on his ears. John thought women only do that. But this guy does it and it was the most adorable thing he witnessed.

No—beautiful, mesmerizing. Earlier when he caught him looking at his sheets he couldn't help but think of an art coming into life.

Perfect mussed curls, prominent cheekbones and jaw, pale greenish-greyish eyes. And a skin complexion that rivals those marble statues on national museum. Just perfect.

"I—I'm Sherlock... seventeen years old. Uh... A Chemistry student."

John's eyebrows raised, "Oh?"

Shit. He's younger than me. Draw the line, Watson.

"And you play the violin?" He implied as he straightened his posture and half-turned on his seat so he could face the guy.

Sherlock nodded bashful, "A passion since childhood."

"Marvelous. No wonder you're so good."

And John marveled again as Sherlock blushed at him. The smile he gave Sherlock was a tight lipped one. Bit not good.

"So," John cleared his throat exagerratedly it made him winced. "Anyway,what exactly are you doing here when I... caught you?"

"I apologise. I didn't mean to intrude. I was only looking for a place where I could practice the piece I'll be playing for my father's wedding. And I really couldn't find any other place where—"

  
Sherlock said rather quickly that John gestured his hands for the guy to slow down.

"Alright, alright—I see now. It's alright."  
He replied, awkwardly.

Does he? Was it—really alright?

As every minute passed, he feels himself lusting over the boy.  
Good Lord, he should really get laid. But before pleasure, he should do something to get rid of Sherlock. He's old enough to be his middle aged teacher.

"John,"  
Sherlock's deep baritone voice drawled, plucking him out of reverie.

"Y-Yeah?" His voice croaked.

 _Fuck_.

Sherlock's gaze never left him.

"Could you please... let me practice with you?" Sherlock said quietly John almost thought he was afraid someone might hear it.

"What? Sure. Yes—Anytime—I mean, when class is done."

_Whoa. Halt there, Watson. What happened with getting rid of him?_

John dismissed the annoying voice inside his head. Even he was being annoyed by himself. But all of his annoyance vanished when he saw Sherlock beamed a smile at him.

"I—thank you. I just don't want to—disappoint my father and his soon-to-be new wife. He's the only one I have..."

John immediately saw the pain and sadness that swiftly crossed Sherlock's eyes.

"It's alright. I understand." He replied softly. "We should uh... work out a schedule, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded at him with an unbelievable look on his face. Then finally he gave him a small smile.

When Sherlock left that afternoon, John promised to himself that he wouldn't let those beautiful eyes be clouded with hurt and pain again. But how would he do that without giving the whole university a gossip to chit-chat with? He have to make a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> —to be continued—
> 
> A/N: Almaz was a song, piano ballad written and performed by Randy Crawford in 1986. It was inspired about a couple refugee that was Randy's neighbors back then.
> 
> It's instrumental version played only in the piano that I've discovered in my father's Golden Piano Collection when I was still a child left a mark on my memory. I can say that these prompts was an honor to it. Unfortunately, I've only found one violin performance on Youtube but played with vocals and a backing band.


	10. do you see what I see

"YOU DID WHAT?!"

John gave a small smile to an awestruck Mike over their lunch break. His long time friend was grilling him with tons of questions about his and Sherlock's secret meetings an hour after class. That arrangement went on for three weeks and by the time Mike learned about it, John knew he had become closer to Sherlock than he shouldn't be.

"Good Lord, John! Do you see what I see??" Mike exclaimed helplessly after sipping on his tea.

"What?"  
He asked casually.

Mike groaned. "Do you see what I see?!"

He raised an eyebrow. "Again—what?"

Mike groaned again. "I see trouble, John! And I know you know what I mean."

He fixed his friend a stern gaze.  
"No Mike, I have no idea what exactly you mean." He said.

His friend sighed in resign. "You know you can't be seen with a student right?"

"Goodness, Mike." He rolled his eyes. "Sherlock could be seen with anyone. He's an adult not a child. And I'm not even taking advantage of him. And I'm not a teacher either. But he's the one who barged into my little door, fainted when he first saw me and asked me to accompany him playing his violin when he regained consciousness," He let out a frustrated sigh. "I'm just a washed out former soldier and army doctor trying to make a living. I didn't even asked him how he'll pay me. But he still brought any amount of money he could give. There's nothing more to that."

Mike said nothing about his outburst. He counted to three before facing his friend.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to sound so defensive." John muttered under his breath. "Besides, Sherlock's already sounded perfect. Just one last practice and our arrangement is over. His father's wedding will occur later this evening."

"I understand." Mike said softly, nodding at him. "I feel sorry for you, John. I apologise as well, if my words sounded a bit rude assumptions."

John gave his friend a terse nod.

"Thank you. Don't worry. He's such an insufferable prick. Complaining here and there. I don't even know where I got the strength on dealing with him."

Mike let out a hearty laugh.  
"Yeah. He's a good man. That's just Sherlock for you. That kid had been through alot."

"Yeah, I know." He replied.

On the span of three weeks him and Sherlock had already exchanged their life stories. And John was surprised he could actually relate to some of it. For once, Sherlock being gay and him being bisexual. The bullying, name-calling and other forms of judgement are just some of the few they share feeling.

"Mm. Alright. Have to go first. See you later, Mike."  
John stood up and waved at his friend.

"See you, John. Say 'hi' to Sherlock for me." Mike smiled and waved back at him.

"I will,"

###

At six in the evening, John was now walking on the Triangle towards the third building, whistling a nameless tune. He was about to round the corner when a heated conversation reached his ears.

"I want him gone too, Maurice." A female voice said in a low frustrated voice.

"Who's it gonna be this time? Seventeen years ago you made me kill a pregnant lady now what—?"

John took out his phone and accessed its camera app. He just had a feeling he might need it.

"She deserved that. She took away the man I love." The female voice said in a grave tone.

"We both know that Stefan never fell in love with you—" The man's voice was mocking. John then heard the sound of a palm in contact with the skin.

And then the female's voice shouted in anger. "That's because she seduced him!"

"Come now, Lovelle. We all knew Adrianna never liked Stefan in the first place. It was only when he played the piano and Adrianna played with him with the violin on that fateful Christmas ball, that she realised she had been in love with him from the start."

Another slap. John was starting to feel pity on the man. If only the two aren't talking about murdering someone.

"Hold your horses! I will do it again for you. That's because you're my half-sister. But I'm warning you—"

"Oh just shut up. Just kill Sherlock later and I'm going to pay you half a million and then you can vanish on the face of this earth!"

"Fine. How do you want me to do it?"

"Oh, same as before. I will let him stand in the middle of his beloved stage and you know how the lights work, do you?"

The female's voice sounded low and clouded with malicious intent.

John knee's almost buckled when he heard the name the female just said— _Sherlock_ , what are the chances?

"Alright—"

"Do wear a tuxedo. It's my wedding and you're my brother after all."

"Half—"

"Oh well, your mother's a whore."

The man sneered at the female but said no more.

When the owner of the voices parted, John watched as the lady in red walked the other way to a car parked near the second building, her heels clicking while behind her. While the huge bulky man went on to disappear outside the gates of the school. He needed to see Sherlock—immediately. Before it's too late.

He let the car vanished outside of the university's view before running towards the third building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> —to be continued—


	11. comfort and joy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lasssst part of the continuous prompt. Soft soft soft Sherlock. Most of my locations are fictional btw.

If there's one thing that Sherlock finds odd was the way he feels whenever he's inside the music room. He felt comfort like the way the musical notes enveloped him as he played his violin. And joy when he knows that everytime he opened the music room, John would be there waiting for him. All smiles and blue eyes sparkling. Alive—unlike the first time they've met when the man looked lost. John said, the war did that to him. And Sherlock understood. On the weeks that they were together polishing his violin piece—John shared a lot to him. And he knows that John haven't done that before, opening his life to others. On the other hand, they both shared passion for music and Sherlock was just glad that he have someone to share it with—

He was halfway through the stairs when his mobile phone rang. It was Lovelle.

"Hello?" He asked quietly.

There was a chatter on the background before Sherlock hears Lovelle's voice.  
"Oh! Hello dear! Are you getting ready now? It's almost time for the wedding."  
Lovelle explained enthusiastically.

"Oh—I... I am. Just give me half an hour." I'll be there." Sherlock said in a frantic voice.

"That's great then! I'll be seeing you later okay? And Sherlock, you do know I already treat you and love you like my own right? And ... my heart only beats for your father." Lovelle said in a small voice. But the last sentence was clear and firm. As if he couldn't say anything that could change the evening.

Sherlock felt sad all of a sudden. He remembered the photos of his father and mother in each other's arms looking hopelessly in love. He kept that photo when his father gave it to him as a present before taking Lovelle home with them.

He blinked hard to prevent his tears from falling.

"Yes, Aunt Lovelle." He whispered in reply.

"Oh you adorable young one, just Lovelle would be good."

"Alright..."

"Okay! See you!"

The line went dead and Sherlock felt the same. He looked ahead at the third music room and thought if he could just see John one last time. But he didn't want his father to be disappointed.

Rummaging through his mailman's bag, he stripped off a piece of paper from his pad and scribbled something. And then he took the last steps towards the music room's door and put his note under the mat. John would see that later. And hopefully, he will be able to see him.

With a long last look he whispered, " _Goodbye, John..._ "

And then he turned on his back and walked away.

•••••

John almost toppled on the stairs when he arrived on the music room. He lifted the floormat and saw the keys and a piece of note. So Sherlock hadn't been inside for the key was left untouched. He then unfolded the note and read what it says. It was Sherlock's cursive handwriting saying that he wouldn't be able to attend their last practice for he was needed already in the wedding. To his relief, Sherlock has included the wedding reception's address. A race against time and for Sherlock's life.

John then took out his phone and called Mike. He clutched the paper on his free hand with the key and opened the door. When Mike answered, he tried to explain everything as fast as he can. When he was sure that Mike promised he'll arrive with the police and now on their way. He only had little time to think of what to wear.

It was a wedding after all.

In the end, John chose the attire he most likely wear before rushing away and inviting himself to the reception.

###

The background music was already starting when he saw John. John who was now wearing a bespoke black tuxedo. And when their gazes met Sherlock felt the invisible pull. John tilted his head on the left and went that way. Sherlock looked at his father on the front who was still talking to his new wife and then back at John who was now gesturing at him to follow. He whispered to his cousin seated beside him and excused himself for a minute.   
But as he was about to move Lovelle called out to him.

"Sherlock, dear."

Sherlock turned to the front and saw his father beaming a smile at him while Lovelle was standing with a microphone at hand.

"Would you kindly please play the song you have been putting so much effort to practice, for us?"

He looked where John was standing but the man was nowhere to be found. His heart sinked a little.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He then picked up his violin from its case and walked in the middle of the stage.

The guests and their extended families gave him an applause as he began to play the duet of his violin with a piano accompaniment in the background. He was so lost—eyes closed in his music. That it was only when he was about to finish, he opened his eyes and found John on the left side of the stage with an actual piano and playing with him.

He smiled fondly at the man as they play to the end. Their gazes locked and their hands danced in their own music until the end of the song.

A series of applause warmed him as he bowed, face flustered and at the same time, he gestured to where John stood beside the piano. When the spotlight beamed at John, the audience applaused once again. Then finally, John walked to the middle of the stage. John took his hand and squeezed it while looking at him. He smiled as he squeezed back.

"There's something you need to know, Sherlock. And your father will tell everyone about it." John whispered to him. Before he could ask what it was, he saw his father tapped his wine glass with the silver spoon.

"May I have your attention please? Just for a minute? This won't take any longer."

The guests quiet down and his father proceed. Sherlock was a bit surprised at the change of expression his father was now showing everyone. He looked grim.

"There has been a disturbing matter that I should bring to light with all of you present here. And if I would be able to confirm this right here, there will be a huge change that will happen today."

His father then gestured behind him to the operator of the projector.  
"Please, thank you."

After a few tinkering of the operator, the white board flickered behind them as the speakers produce a conversation while the video played on the board.

Two voices, one male and female, plotting a murder and talking about a past horrible murder and not an accident.

What it seemed as if everything happened in a flash, the guests were murmuring to each other while Lovelle was kneeling in front of his father. Begging and crying. But Stefan just stood there watching Lovelle beg. The pain in his father's eyes was so painful to look at. That he ran to his father's side and hugged him.

The police finally came and Lovelle, still in her wedding case was arrested and taken away.

After an additional scene, the empty wedding ended and all the guests have left. When Sherlock looked and asked for John, but the man was nowhere to be found.

Silently in his heart, Sherlock muttered his gratefulness.

•••••

Two years later, Sherlock graduated from his course and applied in another university for a scholarship in the field of Classical Music. He pursued his dreams and was able to finish with flying colours. Sherlock's father never re-married again but he does relived and honoured the memory of his wife by teaching his son the songs they used to play together.

•••••

_(A short epilogue)_

The third music room was fixed and painted again. It was no longer a storage room for broken musical instruments. But has become a music studio where students could learn to play the piano or the violin or make the music along with memories.

John no longer worked there. But he was now working for someone else. He transferred on a flat in London just about two months ago, and started dating his flatmate. And if one passed by the Opera Avenue, a classical themed bar in downtown London. He or she could see a small built of a man, with blonde hair and greying streaks, seated in front of the piano. His fingers danced with the keys but his gaze was focused on the tall lithe figure of a man with a riot of dark curls and a violin tucked under his elegant chin. His bow whispers the notes as the music they make blended.

And when the tall man leaned down to kiss the blonde man softly and slowly on the lips, the two of them makes the sweetest sound only they could hear.

A song that only their hearts could sing. _Adagio cantabile._

  
_—FINISH—  
Thank you for reading again!_

_—Leev_


	12. the misadventures of the Gingerbread men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas eve and John couldn't be with Rosie so Sherlock steps in. :)

One gloomy Monday evening, also known as Christmas Eve, Sherlock heard two familiar muffled voices arguing outside his bedroom door. But before he could contemplate if he was still in his Mind Palace—sleeping and having a ridiculous fluffy dream of having the now, two, most important persons in his life and not just ridiculously drooling and having an 'I'm-no-longer-alone'-daydream in his bed, Watson wailed.

_Fine. I'm up._

Ever since John and Rosie moved back at Baker Street after the events at Sherrinford, those two familiar voices had been his alarm clock. His mind palace had been constant in reminding him that he's no longer alone walking the hallways of his majestic haven and that there are now two additional souls dwelling in it.

The thought made him smile.

With sleepy eyes he moved languidly, naked in between his sheets. His morning wood lay at rest on his stomach. Half-hard and is vying for attention.

But he couldn't he care less.

He got up ruffling his curls and wrapping the sheets over his lithe body. Robe could wait. He then stood up and walked towards the bedroom just in time as the continuous pounding banged on his door.

"S-SHEWOCK!!!!" Goes Watson's wailing, followed by John bellowing.  
"Rosamund! Stop it right now! Sherlock's still asleep—"  
  
He sighed and opened the door, "Well, not now, am I?"

John ran a hand over his greying hair.  
"I am so sorry, Sherlock. Rosie, apologise to—"

Sherlock tried to look gloomily but the man was already looking at him with a grim expression. And he just realised that John didn't finished his sentence.

"Sherlock."  
He heard John say. John's eyes darkened at him as he stared back.

"What— did I say about sleeping in sheets?" John muttered in a grave voice.

Sherlock crouched down at Rosie who was now clinging helplessly on his sheets. He wrapped an arm on the ten year old's waist and his other arm on her bum and lifted her.

"Mm. I felt warm last night." He said as he shrugged while tickling Rosie's sides. When the kid chuckled heartily, Sherlock smiled fondly at her.

He turned to John, which was now looking at them with a surprisingly soft expression on his face. But when he caught John staring, the man cleared his throat and looked away.

"Why? Do you feel exposed?" Sherlock asked as a challenge. John turned sharply back at him, head tilted up.

"I think I've heard that line before."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Of course he knew what John meant.

"Never dwell in the past, John. It won't do you any good." He said before turning to Rosie. "Now, Watson. What seemed to be the problem?" He asked softly.

Rosie then turned to him round blue eyes glistening with unshed tears and sucking her thumb. Her short blonde hair reflects the yellow fairy lights flickering by the mantelpiece. 

"Papa won't play with me." The little girl whispered while her free hand fumbled on his sheets.

"Mm.." He glanced at John and raised an eyebrow. "Your father has his reasons, Watson. Maybe he's about to go to work?"

He looked at John again and the latter nodded while gesturing the word Emergency.

Sherlock turned back to Rosie removing her thumb from her lips.

"Would you like to read a story? What do you say?"

The kid blinked at his father and then looked at him and shook her head. Her lips started to tremble once again.

"He promised NO WORK on Christmas," The little girl whispered that Sherlock could barely hear it.

Sherlock watched as John raised his hand to reached out at Rosie but prevented himself in doing so. John then turned on his back. He went to the kitchen and stood in front of the fridge.

Sherlock could tell that John hated going to work on a Christmas eve as well. His shoulders are sagged.

He looked around his bedroom and found an old photo album of his childhood by the tons of boxes piled on the corner. He dusted it off and gave it to Rosie.

"There you go, love." He whispered softly.

Rosie took the photo album and wiggled out of his arms. The kid immediately ran out of the room and settled on the couch.

Checking on Rosie if everything's alright, he throw the sheets back on the bed and slipped on his robes. Then he padded to the kitchen as well.

"Sherlock, you don't have to look sd." John whispered to him as he stood beside him.

"I can take care of her—"

"Yeah, of course." John nodded tersely.

"You should go. Emergency couldn't wait." He said.

Sherlock watched as John gave one last look on Rosie, then walked to the door and left.

Unbeknownst to John, he was watching. Always watching. He saw John outside 221 hesitated twice on leaving but after another phone call he crossed the street and vanished right at the corner.

###

After John had gone, Sherlock checked on Rosie and found the little girl still sitting on the floor by the fireplace, now playing with her alphabet blocks.

He walked to the refrigerator and stared at the piece of paper John had scrawled.  
It says, 'John and Rosie's schedule'. And then the month of December almost full with the things the father and daughter made and also some days with him. When his gaze flickered on the date of twenty-fourth and found the note, 'with Rosie' and the word 'baking'.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes but of course, he already know what to do. He's Sherlock Holmes after all. But first, he just have to make sure that the thing he will do will never cause any more stress to John.

He smiled to himself before walking back to Rosie.

John would be gone for a few hours—three more or less.

When he got back to the kid, she was now chewing on biscuits from Sherlock's evening platter.

"How did you get that?"

But Rosie didn't replied.

"Sneaking on my back aren't we?"  
He said, then Rosie grinned.

"So, Watson—what do you think about baking? We'll call it, The Misadventures of Mister Gingerbread?"

  
•••••

What John really wanted was never to fix wounds even for just an hour and just be with his daughter and Sherlock that evening. But instead, he couldn't say no to the call of duty. Of course, why would he? He's a doctor after all.

So after three hours—no—almost four. He sighed heavily, he was going home.

When 221 came in sight, his heart began to thump erratically. No he wasn't nervous. Was he?

He got out of the cab and paid the driver almost too much when he closed the door immediately. The good cabbie (this time) generously gave him the change and the excess pounds.

He got his keys and went on inside. He trudged the steps and stopped on his tracks when he heard no sound coming from the two persons he left earlier.

Instinct took him as he tiptoed the last steps up to 221b when he found the door open, and Mes. Hudson was just going out.

She was almost startled when she saw him.

"Oh! Good Lord, John!" She exclaimed while putting a hand over her heart.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson."  
He gave her an apologetic smile.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head and gestured a hand inside the flat.

"You shouldn't make any noise, Rosie had just been asleep for almost an hour. But Sherlock has just slept. Oh the mess he's made." Mrs. Hudson said in a playful tone.

"What mess do you mean? Did Sherlock blew something up again this time?"

"Oh no, John. But—well, you know Sherlock. He's a bit dramatic is he? You should go. It's almost midnight. I guess we'll have to postpone our Christmas eve celebration."

"Yeah I think so too. Sorry about that Mrs. H."

"Non-sense. Go on and rest then."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. And Happy Christmas."

Mrs. Hudson looked at him fondly and smiled. Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. "Look after him, John. Take care of his heart. Now I should go. Toodles."

Mrs. Hudson went on downstairs as he sneaked inside the flat.  
He was confused but somehow when he saw what Mrs. Hudson had left—eventually he knew what she meant.

The flat's living room was a disaster. Crumbs of cookies are scattered, he walked in further and found the kitchen decorated with flour while the Christmas tree was a view. Various colours of cookie Gingerbread Men were hanging.

And then his gaze dropped on the floor. On his couch, Sherlock was sleeping, back on his couch and his head lying limply. As if he was hypnotised John slid his fingers over Sherlock's curls and leaned down to kiss his forehead.

Sherlock hummed in response and it made John smile. And when he kneeled, he found Sherlock's eyes pale green darkened to grey. He saw it happened and marvelled about it.

He licked his lower lip and bit it. He watched every single expression that crossed Sherlock's face. Those gorgeous eyes following the movement of his tongue, flickering over his face. And having that same expeession he knew he was also wearing.

"H-Hi.." His voice croaked. He's really stressed.

_Bloody hell._

"Hello, John." Sherlock drawled an octave lower of his voice. And John had to fight himself to just pounce at him. He's not young anymore for goodness sake.

He cleared his throat as he continued to act simply.

"Rosie?" He breathed.

Sherlock leaned in and their foreheads touched.

"Upstairs, your room. I dressed her before putting her up to sleep. She's had her supper and milk. Then we baked, and Mrs. Hudson helped us.' Sherlock whispered to him.

"Thank you... Today was just—" He whispered back but couldn't finish. Truth be told he lost a patient today. And the fact that it's Christmas in the morning made it painful even more. So it'll be a story to tell for another day.

Then he looked into Sherlock's eyes and saw everything—understanding, desire, pleasure and something...

But he wasn't able to finish thinking about it, for Sherlock put a gingerbread on his mouth. And he almost choked but Good Lord, it tasted good. As if it was something that triggered happy thoughts.

"Wow—this is," John said in between chewing.

"Is it? I haven't tasted it." Sherlock asked innocently while his hands made its way to his shoulderblades in slow circling motions.

John closed his eyes and hummed.

"Mm. Let me then?" He asked.

The man tilted his head in confusion. And John found it even more endearing than ever. From the coffee table, he took a spoonful of gingerbread crumbs from the bowl to his mouth and leaned forward to kiss Sherlock's lips.

Teasing and probing, until their tongues made contact and their hands couldn't get enough of each other. And the gingerbread crumbs scattered in pieces all over them—John thought, when it's with Sherlock Holmes, misadventures _only_ had been this good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I, NEVER IN MY LIFE EXPECTED, that my very first Rosie (a bit, where she's among the characters) fic would be like this.
> 
> And so I've decided to end my prompts here. Thank you so much for reading. :)
> 
> P.S. But you might want to stick around on my haven and watch out for the remaining prompts as an individual work. Thank you again! Merry Christmas!

**Author's Note:**

> It has been an honour to write for MissDavis' prompts and to my handful of readers.  
> For a first timer, every chapter was a struggle but was enjoyable as well.  
> I loved every minute of it! Thank you so much. 'Til next time! ^^  
> Thank you for reading!!  
> Tweet me @allsovacant!


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